


Time For Hope

by bugbee



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canonical Character Death, Dream Bubbles (Homestuck), Found Family, Friendship, Grief, Guilt, Healing, Pale Pining, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Rare Pairings, Remorse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-18 07:08:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21890245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bugbee/pseuds/bugbee
Summary: It's ironic, he thinks, that life only started to make sense after he had died.Eridan Ampora is adrift with guilt and betrayal, plagued with a conflicting sense of superiority and self-hatred, when he stumbles into Damara Megido.It's the best thing that's ever happened to him.
Relationships: Damara Megido & Roxy Lalonde, Eridan Ampora & Damara Megido, Eridan Ampora & Damara Megido & Roxy Lalonde
Comments: 4
Kudos: 43
Collections: Twitterstuck Secret Santa 2019





	Time For Hope

**Author's Note:**

> This is my secret santa gift for [Hamifi](https://twitter.com/hamifihekrix) on Twitter! I hope you enjoy this, despite the strange pairing!

It begins with an ending.

He wakes up alone, faced with the smears of his mistakes against the floor, even as his wounds slowly knitted back together. The adrenaline and fury that had rushed through his veins had been cut off with the swing of a chainsaw, and now the heat is cooling into icy regret and despair. He knows what he’s done, and he hates himself for it. An arrogant part of him wants to yell that it wasn’t his fault because he didn’t start it, as though he were some childish wriggler, and bitterness rises in his throat. A well of righteousness, of delusion tries to worm into his thoughts, trying to convince him that there was no other way, that he was only doing what he was meant to do, that all he wanted was to save her-!

But he knows the truth of his actions. The blood may have been cleaned off of him, but the imprints remain on his hands, burning his feeble justifications away with guilt. If he were not already dead, he would have done the job himself. But there will be no rest, no forgetting. He knows what he has done, and he will never be free from it again.

He’s always felt alone, out of place, disjointed from the only friend group that would have him, even though his own personality and actions would have fit much, much better with other trolls. But he has never felt so cut off, so isolated as now, and he knows he deserves it. All he ever seems to do is cause problems, pushing people away with his neediness, his desperation to not be swallowed into the empty darkness that constantly seems to wait for him. Is it no wonder that this would be the outcome? How could he have ever thought this would end differently?

He fits his title like a glove, and he hates that it was right, that the others were right. He destroys hopes and lives wherever he goes, and bitterness wells up in his mouth, bitterness at himself and the world and the Game.

He only ever wanted to help.

He only ever wanted to be noticed.

Was it so bad to crave recognition and comradery? Was it truly so abhorrent to wish for the company of someone who genuinely enjoyed his presence?

No, but the way he went about it was, he thinks, and pain lances across his stomach. What he did was unforgivable, and there are no excuses to soften it, to pretend that he can be forgiven. Violent, bloodthirsty Eridan, stupid enough to think he could be special, that he could help, even as the blood of others dripped down his claws. The others may have broken free from their inherent nature, but how could he ever believe that he would be able to do the same? Murder is written into his very blood, power and violence twitching in every muscle, the schoolfeed chanting his duties and future into his mind.

He must feed the Heiress’ Lusus, he must protect the Heiress until she came of age, he must obey the commands of the Empire, he must acknowledge his own superiority, he must **_kill, exterminate, purify the world of the filth that would seek to harm the empire, OBEY, SUBMIT, CONSUME._**

A perfect little soldier, but the universe’s shittiest friend.

He had only wanted to protect her. How many assassinations did he stop, how many schmoozing highbloods that wielded knives behind their words did he threaten, how many times had he tried to steer her into ruthlessness, into violence so that she could protect herself and win against the Empress one day? He never understood why she rebuffed him, why she turned away in disgust at his words, his pleas to become the ultimate predator before she became prey. Why could she not understand that he never wanted to see her broken body smeared against the floor, death gripping her very being in the face of an impossible opponent?

How ironic was it then that he became the very fate he feared for her.

Pink and yellow and jade, swirling into a mess of death and destruction, as the fury and violence heated his regal, superior blood.

He wants to laugh at the futility of it all, because at the very core of it, he has become the villain, the shadowy figure that would end her life in his dreams. He loves her, he truly does, but it’s a poisonous love, a vicious, choking, desperate love that always ends in hurt. He only wishes he had realised it sooner.

The steel floor is freezing, an icy chill seeping into his very bones, but he can’t move from his place on the floor, can’t bring himself to pull away from the cold that burns his gaudy clothes and skin. Shadows dance around him on the walls, and an aching loneliness and grief etches into his heart, carving his crimes into his mind. This is what he deserves, he thinks, the cold sapping his strength.

His eyes close, and he hopes he never wakes up again.

* * *

He wakes up to warmth and the acrid smell of smoke, something soft fluttering over his body. He cracks an eye open, before regretting it as the bitter smoke stings his eyes and throat. He coughs, and someone cackles darkly.

“リトルプリンスは目覚めていますか？ または彼の高血の殿下はより多くの睡眠を必要としますか？” A voice rings out in an unfamiliar language, but he knows when someone is mocking him, when their voice is filled with disdain, and he forces his eyes to open again. A figure draped in red sits several meters away from him, lounging lazily on one of the many couches the meteor had, smoke drifting gently from their mouth.

“Megido?” Tumbles out of his mouth before he can stop it, but his vision clears slightly, even with his glasses slightly askew, and he immediately knows that no, this isn’t his Megido. The figure laughs again, high and malicious, tutting something rude his way, and he scowls.

“Who the fuck are you?” He demands, accent causing him to stumble over his words, and the other troll smirks.

“私に怒らないで, Ampora,” she chimes viciously, “くだらないすみれ色の血が彼らの最も低い瞬間にどのように見えるかを見たかっただけです。 クロノスのクソじゃなかったかもしれませんが、あなたはやります。”

“What the hell kinda language is that?” He snaps back, body tensing as he bolts up from the couch.

“East Beforan, you fucking ingrate,” she says lazily in Alternian, voice heavy with an accent he can’t identify. She takes a drag of her cigarette, and blows the smoke in his face, cackling madly at his sputtering.

“Stop fuckin’ doin’ that!” He hisses out furiously, tensing in preparation for a fight. He wouldn’t let some rustblood trash trample all over him, not without teaching them a painful lesson. The fake-Aradia grins viciously, blunt teeth gleaming in the dim lighting.

“No,” she declares, flicking ash towards him.

That does it. He stalks up to her, hand reaching into his Sylladex to grab Ahab’s Crosshairs and show this disrespectful bitch that taking on her superior was a huge fucking mistake.

“You look here, you shitty rustie, I’ve had a supremely awful fucking day and just want to sit down without having some bitch blow disgusting particles onto my face. So put out the cigarette and get the fuck out of here, or I’ll-!”

His words stumble and crash at the look on her face. Suddenly, a weight seems to bear down onto him, and he realises that he has threatened a troll on the cusp of adulthood.

He really is a fucking fool, he thinks, because what idiot would try to take on an adult troll, no matter the blood colour?

Her hand flashes out and grabs his wrist, sharp nails digging into his skin, and he winces, instinctively ducking his head.

“Or what?” She says softly, a deadly gentleness in her speech. “You think you can fucking take me, shitty excuse of Ampora?”

Her voice has lowered into something dangerous, her eyes narrowing into slits, and he takes an impulsive step back, yanking his hand back and baring his own teeth. Jagged amusement tears through her face, but the simmering fury continues to roil in her pupils.

“I am almost adult troll, you piece of shit, and I may be dirty rustie, but I have some tricks up sleeve that have you begging for death.” Her accent turns into something harsh and grating, tone promising pain and regret if he dares to push forward.

And for once, he doesn’t. Violent, conflict happy Eridan backs down.

Instead, he sits back down on the couch, and looks anywhere other than the troll, who scoffs at him.

“That what I thought, クソスカム,” she hisses, hurling a word in East Alternian at him that he is absolutely sure is an insult. For a while, neither of them speak again, smoke curling gently in the room, and he wonders just where the hell he is. The troll before him has the same horns and symbol as Megido, but everything else about her is vastly different to the Megido he had once known.

If anything, she almost reminds him of himself. Bitter and cynical, angry and vicious, desperate for something violent to happen, just so the swell of emotions trapped inside their chests can finally be released. He swallows at the comparison, and finally looks up at her again.

She’s watching him closely, blank eyes half-lidded, painted lips curled into a frown, and he almost casts his gaze away again.

“So who are you then?” He asks quietly, and her mouth stretches into a mocking smile. His words are an unspoken apology, and she knows it.

“I many things, shitty wriggler, but you call me Damara Megido,” she says, taking another drag of her cigarette.

It’s grim acceptance of his apology, but heavy with warning not to pull any shit again.

“I’m Eridan,” he offers hesitantly, and she raises an unamused eyebrow.

“You think I give a shit?”

He shrugs, and she mutters something in East Alternian again, finally looking away from him to stare distantly at the wall.

He studies her for another moment, taking in the curve of her horns, the unhappy curl of her mouth, the bitterness in her eyes. A brash, arrogant part of him wants to call out to her and demand answers, but-

He glances at her hands, gripping the table she’s leaning against tightly enough to pierce the top of it, and he flicks his gaze away. He’s not an idiot, no matter what other trolls might say. He knows when he’s clearly outclassed, and this troll, no matter her blood colour, could probably crush him into pulp with an uninterested stamp of her heel.

“You know what you are?” She voices suddenly, startling him out of his musings, and her expression reminds him of a purrbeast about to pounce on unsuspecting prey.

“...dead?” he says half-heartedly, blinking at her answering cackle.

“Dead! Yes, yes, we both dead. We all dead here. Good riddance, in my opinion.” She spits on the ground, something furious in her expression, but he doesn’t dare prod into the cause behind her hatred.

“Where... is here?” He asks tentatively, and she sweeps her arms open in a grand gesture, mouth stretched wide into a fake smile, eyes glinting with derision.

“Welcome to Dream Bubbles, little Ampora. Welcome to rest of your fucking death. At least until everyone’s destruction at hands of my Lord.”

Eridan swallows at her words, and something viciously self-satisfied wells up within him. He was right. He knew he was right.

“Bec Noir?”

“No, do not be fucking fool. That shitty mutt barely able to lick own nook, never mind cause destruction of the universe.” His heart sinks again at her words, and she throws him an amused smirk.

“No, I talk about Lord English.” Her voice lilts up slightly, and she sounds the most content he’s ever heard her be in the bare moments he’s met her.

“An’ you’re... excited for that?” He doesn’t expect an answer, but she turns to look at him, face hopeful and desperate.

“Of course! Who would not be? This repetition, this awful existence... it finally end. The others are afraid, of course they would be, little shit-sniffing squeakbeasts, but I know better,” she explains passionately, even as her tone drops in derision at the mention of the ‘others’.

“Tell me, little Ampora, how does living with people who mocked you, betrayed you, murdered you for eternity sound?”

“Pretty fuckin’ awful,” he says after a pause, heart falling in heavy shame, and he swallows. He wonders how she would react if she knew, if she understood what he had done to his own friends.

(Can he even call them that? Was he ever a friend of theirs? Or just a nuisance they bravely put up with until he killed them all?)

“Yes. Yes it is ‘pretty fuckin’ awful.’” Her voice is mocking, yet there is a dark and angry hatred in her words. “That why I cannot wait for the Lord. They will perish, and I will be free.”

For the first time, the bitterness fades from her face, and he can see the remnants of a lost troll, desperate for salvation and hopeful for something better. But smoke drifts across her face, and it’s gone.

“Then you probably wouldn’t want me around,” he blurts out without thinking, and immediately wishes he had kept his mouth shut. For once the ache of loneliness is swept up by confusion and the vitriol from the troll in front of him, her angry words and actions resonating deeply in his own psyche. But from the sounds of it, she has been a victim, while he... he is the villain who caused similar hurts onto others.

“Oh?” Her lips have pulled back up into a smirk, amusement dancing in her blank eyes.

“I betrayed my friends,” he can’t stop himself from saying, “an’ I killed two of them. One of ‘em was even my ex-moirail.”

He can’t bear to look at her, head bowed down in shame, and he waits for her disgust, for her to leave him behind as well. For a moment, there is nothing but silence, and he wonders if she has already left, but a high, grating laughter cuts through his thoughts. His gaze snaps back up and catches on her laughing form, cruel amusement alight in her face.

“You think that is special? You want medal? I did same, killed the fucker that my matesprite cheated on me with, slaughtered the pink bitch who tortured me day after day, and I cripple my ex-matesprite for life. What you do, little Ampora?” Her voice is viciously curious, and she leans forward towards him, mouth still stretched in a grin.

“I... I tried to convince her to join Bec Noir with me. I thought... that way we could survive. But then her new... matesprite? Moirail? I don’t even fuckin’ know, stopped me, an’ I challenged him to a duel.”

“And then?”

“Then we fought and I won, blindin’ him, but she... she tried to attack me with her trident, so I shot her down as well. Then the third one tried to get me so I shot her and her matriorb as well. Turns out she doesn’t die easy though, ‘cause she came back and cut me in half,” he’s staring at the cold metal floor, vivid images of the past flashing in front of his eyes, and he wonders how he could ever be so stupid.

But suddenly she’s in front of him, a cold hand taking his chin and forcing him to look her directly in the eyes.

“Tell me everything,” she commands, eyes narrowed in interest.

And he does.

* * *

It’s... freeing to be able to talk truthfully about everything without constant fear of judgement or scorn. He talks at length and Damara listens closely, only stopping him here and there to ask questions, but never once does she roll her eyes or tell him to stop being over-dramatic. So he tells her about the loneliness, about trying to help Feferi be strong, how the rejection time and time again stung. How quickly she moved on after breaking up, how angry he was that she never seemed to care, even after everything he did for her. His voice gets quiet as he explains how isolated he felt, how the derision and disgust and coldness of everyone made him feel smaller and smaller, so he felt like he had to be louder. They couldn’t ignore him if he was making a scene after all.

He can’t stop himself from shivering as he tells her about the angels, about the horror that was his land, and how desperate he was to get them to stop, to keep them away.

And then he gets to the final hours, how he tried to reach out and was screamed at by Karkat, the only one he could still consider a friend. How he walked up to Feferi and gave her an ultimatum, how Sollux mocked him, how the fury and hatred finally exploded.

He tells her about the blood and the determination to continue, to make them all pay, and then the sudden shock of seeing Kanaya alive, how she sliced through him like nothing. He talks about regret and grief and shame, and she says nothing.

It feels like hours have gone past by the time he stops talking, voice hoarse and feeling stripped bare. They stay silent for a bit, both of them sitting back down on the couch he woke up on initially.

And then she starts to talk, voice low, about being too trusting, too kind, and having her heart shredded to pieces. She tells him of healing, of getting better, only to be taunted and tortured endlessly by a relentless tormentor, how slowly it became worse and worse until one day, she couldn’t take it anymore. She smiles as she talks about killing her, slowly and painfully, before the “pink bitch”, in her words, managed to escape and god-tier. Damara explains how she attacked her former lover, crippling him for life, before moving on to his matesprite, murdering him without a second thought. He listens as intently as she did for him, hearing how she caused havoc for people she once called friends, until finally she was called upon to Scratch the game.

“And just like you, the one I thought I had killed came back and blew us all up. And now I stuck here with all of them, with the past, until the Lord finally comes.”

Her face is blank once she finishes, and he almost reaches out to grab her hand. But he is not her moirail, and he doubts she would appreciate it, so he doesn’t.

“It’s kinda funny how similar we are,” he says after a while, and she shrugs.

“Funny not the word I would use. But yes. There are similarities.”

They stay seated together for a long time, both of them trapped in their own thoughts and memories, before finally, Damara stands up.

“I go now.”

The sound of her voice is final, and Eridan finds himself standing up with her, desperation clawing inside his chest. She can’t leave now! She can’t just... go and leave him alone. He watches her slowly saunter up to the door, and words spill from his mouth.

“Can I come with you?”

She pauses, hand touching the door, and for a moment, he’s sure she will laugh at him and say no. But then:

“Do as you wish.”

She opens the door, and he finds himself hurrying after her, anxious to keep up with her and not get left behind. The loneliness that follows him everywhere had ebbed while they talked, and for the first time in a long while, he feels understood.

And he refuses to let that feeling go any time soon.

* * *

Damara doesn’t know what to think about her little tag-along. He’s helpful enough, pointing out various places they could potentially explore, chattering away into her ears about anything and everything. If she tells him to shut up, he usually does, face falling like a disappointed woofbeast, before smoothing out. A part that she still tries to stomp out of her feels guilty, but she pushes it away. She had agreed to be done with other people. All they did was hurt and disappoint her. No, it was better to be alone and trust yourself than ever put your faith in capricious ‘friends’.

But despite that, she doesn’t have the bloodpusher to tell the little nuisance to fuck off. Sure, he’s annoying sometimes, but more often than not, she finds herself interested by his company. He tells her about Alternia, weaving stories of survival and battle, of glory and expectations, and she can’t stop her fascination with the place. It’s so wildly different than Beforus, and a part of her is not surprised that fucking Peixes would manage to create a culture as violent as the Alternian one.

Not that Beforus was much better, with its patronisation and coddling, taking away the rights of lower bloods because they were too ‘incompetent’ to make decisions without the help of the highbloods. Bitterness rises in her throat, and she wonders how the fuck Rufioh could ever stand that creep Zahhak. All the highbloods she knows are uppity fuckers who probably should have been crushed as grubs, but the little Ampora is different than his disgusting Dancestor.

Eridan treats her with a strange respect, despite his derision for lowbloods, and she wonders when the last time someone actually respected her. She can’t find an example, no matter how much she searches in her memories, because for all that Rufioh was kind to her, he always treated her with a certain condescension. Yet another reason why he’s scum.

But Eridan... sometimes he’ll slip into prejudice, but it’s never directly at her, and when he does do it, he’ll quickly correct it. In some weird way, she has won his respect. She wonders if it’s because he’s scared shitless of her, or if it’s because they’re similar. At the thought, she scowls, hands clenching into fists. She had revealed a whole lot more than she had intended to, that first day, purely because she couldn’t stop herself from feeling pity towards him. Her later realisation of that had caused her to be in a foul mood the whole day, causing the little bastard himself to wisely stay out of her way most of the time. Feeling... _pale_ , is not something she ever wants to do, least of all towards a fucking highblood brat.

And yet all the same, the parallels between them make her hesitate in kicking him away fully, time and time again forcing her to pause just before she tells him to beat it. So instead she lets him follow her around like a determined woofbeast, occasionally unable to stop herself from talking back to him whenever he says something particularly fascinating or stupid. Slowly, slowly they seem to settle into a familiar routine, and the bristling hostility that always is within her starts to die down around him.

They wander in and out of Dream Bubbles, never coming across anyone else, and she’s grateful for it. If someone came along, she thinks it would disturb the fragile truce they’ve built between them, the slow threads of... not trust, but acceptance that has started to grow. It scares her, how easily it is to slip into a routine, into familiarity, but she can’t force herself to draw back.

He has a similar sense of acidic humour to her, and is slowly responding to her mocking with sarcasm. The first time it had happened he tensed up and flinched, waiting for her fury, but... she found it amusing, and he slowly relaxed. Soon enough, the retorts would come more often. Sometimes his responses are funny enough to make her laugh, and he always seems particularly pleased after that. In turn, her own insults become less venomous, less cutting and more teasing, though she would never admit it.

Despite never ascending, the Game had still gifted (cursed) her with a keen awareness of Time, and she finds the days slipping into weeks as they wander together, passing through memories in hazy acceptance. It isn’t quite contentment, but it’s... close to it. Sometimes they linger longer in the Dream Bubbles, carefully inspecting every aspect for something fascinating, while other times they breeze through without a second thought. It gives them a lot of time, time that she used to hate but is now finding slightly more bearable, and she learns more about him.

And one night, he asks her to teach him East Beforan. The hesitant question makes her freeze, and she turns to look at him. His lips are pressed tightly together, hands clutching his shitty cape nervously, and the breath caught in her chest releases. Constantly talking in Western Beforan is exhausting, and Eridan seems to know it. He stumbles through an explanation, all the eloquence and grace he likes to claim he has disappearing in the face of her stare, before he finally just stays quiet. The small fire they made to ward off the chill of the bubbles crackles softly in their silence, both of them staring resolutely at the twitching flames rather than each other.

Her mind swirls in shock, confusion bubbling up on her tongue, but she swallows it down. How long has it been since someone wanted to learn more about her culture? Since someone wanted to respect her and her ways without derision? A part of her bristles at his question, resolutely sure that this is an attempt at mockery, just another barb meant to needle through her skin and into her pusher.

It wouldn’t be the first time, after all.

But... this is Eridan. Dumb, haughty Eridan, who brings her fish because it reminds her of home, even though neither of them really have to eat. Eridan, who lets her scream and hiss insults when the memories of the past build up too strongly. Eridan, who listens to her babble in East Beforan when the ache of home threatens to consume her.

Young, understanding Eridan, who is a nookhole, but a nice one. To her at least.

“あなたは私にこれを後悔させないでください。さもなければ、私はあなたの背骨を引き裂いて、それでたわごとます,” she hisses out, the sudden sound making her companion startle.

“W...What was that?” He asks hesitantly, and she bares her teeth at him in a facsimile of a grin.

“It means, you piss-drinking wriggler, you better not make me regret this, or I’ll rip out your spine and shit on it.”

He visibly blanches at the threat, but despite it, the corners of his mouth twitch up into a smile, eyes shining with excited glee, before immediately smoothing back out.

“I’ll do my best then,” he says grandiosely, and she cackles at the sound of it.

“Don’t get too cocky, little wriggler!”

Oh, she’s going to enjoy this.

* * *

East Beforan is fucking difficult, and that’s only looking at the spoken part, Eridan learns. He’s getting better at it every time they sit together in the evenings, but he’s by no means... good at it. Not yet at least. Damara finds his mistakes hilarious, and often mocks the poorly strung together sentences back at him, but not before correcting it. She’s a harsh teacher, maybe even a shitty one, but he’s always enjoyed learning, and now isn’t any different.

It’s ironic, he thinks, that he’s learning more about life now than he ever did while alive. He isn’t quite... happy, but he’s slowly approaching content. If this were to continue until the inevitable destruction of the Dream Bubbles at the hands of Lord English, he wouldn’t mind. Eridan certainly now understands Damara’s joy for the end, because outside of exploring, learning East Beforan, and hiding from other people, there’s absolutely nothing to do. He’s never been good with monotony and boredom, the apathy of it all slowly driving him mad. But it’s different with Damara. Sure, they both get bored sometimes, but it’s easier to fill the silence than it would have been if he were alone.

Some days, he wonders if that’s one reason why he finally snapped on the meteor. If the loneliness and monotony of it all had finally made him crack.

He doesn’t like those days.

And yet, he finds it easier to move on from them more and more. The self-hatred doesn’t cling as heavily, the arrogance is easier to shed, and the anger is barely a candle, when before it was a furnace.

Maybe this is what forgiveness feels like.

Maybe not.

He won’t ever forget his actions, will never let himself forget, but he thinks it would be okay to start to look forward. One day, far into the distance, he’ll apologise to those he wronged, to those whose lives he cut short because of his own folly. Their forgiveness would be nice, but he understands that he probably will never get it.

And that’s okay.

He will never stop being sorry, and he wants them to know it- but not by forcing them to accept what he did.

He explains this to Damara one day, after the months started to blur together, and his East Beforan is slightly less clunky. Time rushes past them both in waves, just as untouchable as sea foam, but he doesn’t mind it.

Damara listens closely, just like the first time, and there is a hesitant understanding on her face.

“ _Apologies are a difficult thing,_ ” she says in East Beforan after he finishes talking, “ _but in the end, it is up to you whether you give them or not._ ”

It feels like approval, and he can’t stop the slight smile on his lips, even as the thoughtfulness continues to linger in her eyes for the rest of the day.

Eventually, he and Damara stumble into an unfamiliar Dream Bubble, and find the wrecked remains of a broken planet scattered around them. A doomed timeline, then. Curious to find out more, they search through the rubble, finding only a few remnants that could act as clues. Smears of candy red make his heart skip a beat in worry, but there are too many smears for it to be from only one person. What is particularly shocking though is the streak of purple along the floor, several shades darker than his own.

Did the clown die, he wonders. He certainly doesn’t give a shit either way, though the last time he had seen the bastard, he’d murdered Nepeta and Equius, which was pretty fucking shitty.

Though he’s in no place to judge. Not really.

She gives an impressed whistle at the carnage around them, poking at the blood stains with a curious foot, before pulling back in disinterest.

“ _What the fuck happened here?_ ” He asks out loud, his atrocious East Beforan making Damara snicker.

“ _Who the fuck knows! Looks exciting though, that’s for sure,_ ” she replies, and it takes him a few moments to fully translate the sentence in his head. By the time he’s grasped it, she’s already flounced off, in search of more clues he supposes. He’s about to follow when he sees them.

Another person outside of him and Damara.

It was inevitable really, and to be honest, he’s surprised they even managed to go so long without ever coming across another troll. Although... the person they come across is decidedly not a troll.

Their hair is pale against the dusty planet around them, tight curls bouncing around their shoulders, even as they seem to stare off into the distance. He squints at them, the combination of light hair and dark skin reminding him of that Lalonde human he had... trolled.

(That horrific black-flirting would make him cringe until the day everything was destroyed, what the fuck had he been thinking?!)

“Uh... human?” He calls out into the void, and she startles, eyes swivelling down to face him, and he grimaces at the desolate expression on her face.

And then he notices her eyes.

They aren’t blank.

A smile stretches across her face, friendly and fake, but her hands tremble from the weight of the landscape around her.

“Heyo!” Her voice cracks, and she falters for a moment, before plastering on her grin again. “What a dump, huh?”

“...quite,” he responds drily, watching her swallow. She opens her mouth again, as though to respond, but quickly shuts it again, teeth clacking from the speed. Something wet dribbles down her cheeks, and Eridan can feel himself panic.

“You... okay there?”

It’s a dumb fucking question, because she obviously isn’t alright, but he’s always been shit at comforting people, especially people he doesn’t know and are of a completely different species to him. She lets out a hiccup, and floats down from where she was hovering before, collapsing onto the dusty ground.

“No,” she warbles quietly, despair in her voice, “no, and nothing will ever be okay again.”

“Ah,” he responds back, like an idiot, and hesitantly shuffles over.

“Do... you... uh, want to talk about it?”

What the fuck is he doing? He isn’t her moirail, not by any means, but she looks so ridiculously pitiful and sad, and he’s been trying to get... better at the whole kindness thing. It’s what _she_ would have wanted, after all. Grimacing slightly, he lets himself awkwardly pat her shoulder. She sobs, and he flinches.

“They’re all _gone_ ,” spills out from her mouth, “Janey, Dirk, Jakey... all of them are fucking _gone!_ And John left too, so I’m alone _again_! Why did it have to be them? Why them?”

Her tears are colourless, he notices distantly, continuing patting her shoulder. It’s not quite a pap, but it’s already far more pale than he’d like. But still, Feferi would have comforted this girl. So he’ll... do his best.

“Most of my friends are dead too,” he offers up, leaving out the fact that they were probably no longer his friends, and he had caused some of their deaths as well. It’s still obviously the wrong thing to say, because the human howls in pain at his words, hunching over and sobbing desperately. The sound must have been loud enough to alert Damara, because before he knows it, she’s right next to them and wrapping the girl up in a hug.

“Shhhh, shhh, we here, we here,” Damara says soothingly, before turning to fix him with a glare. “ _What the fuck did you do, you incompetent wriggler?”_

Eridan looks at her incredulously, face twisting into a confused grimace.

“ _Nothin’! I asked her if she was alright an’ she just started..._ uhhh, sobbin’ _!_ ” He hisses back, forced to switch back to Alternian in the face of an unknown word. His eyes dart to look at the weeping human curled up in Damara’s arms. Her hands are tightly wound in Damara’s shirt, who barely flinches at the grip she’s ensconced in, instead fixing him with narrow eyes.

“Is- Is that Japanese?” The girl chokes out through her tears, and Damara turns her gaze away from Eridan and back to her.

“No, no, East Beforan,” she explains, eyes softening into something kind, and she runs a clawed hand through the human’s curly hair. The girl gives a wince when it catches on the curls, and Damara whispers out a hurried apology, carefully disentangling her hand, and going to rub her back instead. However, the girl has started to move away from Damara’s hug, blotches of red showing up on her cheeks.

“I’m... sorry for crying on you like that,” she mumbles, but Eridan’s... companion (friend?), shakes her head.

“No, is fine, is fine. We here, we help. Comfort needed, so we give.” At this, she turns to look at him imploringly, mouth curling in a gesture of ‘right?’ He nods, hand still hovering awkwardly from where he had been patting her before.

“Right,” he agrees, licking his lips nervously. “I’m Eridan, by the way.”

“Roxy,” the newly dubbed Roxy replies, hand reaching up to rub at her still damp eyes.

“And I, Damara.”

“Ah... thank you, Damara, for... helping me there. You too, Eridan. I wasn’t in... a good place.” Roxy’s voice sounds watery, and Damara quickly reaches out to grab her hand.

“You don’t need worry. We listen if needed,” she says with a gentle smile, and Roxy looks like she’s about to burst into tears again, her lips trembling at the kindness.

“I just... They’re all... Fuck. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ,” she whispers, her free hand reaching up to cover her eyes. Damara pulls her back into a hug, and waves Eridan away. Something sharp and jealous lances through his chest, a whispering bitterness on the back of his tongue, but he swallows it down.

“ _I’ll look after her for now, go find some food or something. She’ll need distracting._ ”

He goes without arguing, because he sure as hell would prefer scavenging to comforting. But he still can’t stop the feeling of disappointment in his inability to do something, anything. She would be disappointed too. And yet Damara hadn’t been, she’d taken his awkwardness with an irritated sigh, but still let him go to get away from his discomfort.

When he comes back, she’s whispering encouraging words to Roxy, who looks as though she’s cried every last drop she has and then some. Eridan lets out a shuddering breath before approaching, because the last thing any of them needs is him to upset anyone. Roxy has been through hell, and if he makes it worse, then Damara will absolutely make him regret it.

He sighs unhappily, trying to push away any... _pale_ feelings, as well as the irrational annoyance that had welled up when Damara was comforting Roxy. Jealousy had been his downfall last time.

He won’t ever let it control him again.

* * *

Somehow, Roxy ends up tagging along with them, bitterly explaining that she has no-where else- _no-one_ else to go to. Damara’s pusher aches for her, and she decides to make sure this human is well looked after. Eridan once catches her by the elbow and asks her curiously as to why she’s so... _nice_ to Roxy, and she had seen the envious confusion in his eyes.

“ _Because she isn’t a troll_ ,” she says simply, and he rears back, hurt blooming on his face before being wiped off quickly by a cool understanding.

“Oh,” he replies. She would explain more, but... it is difficult to truly reason why she is kind to this girl. Whether it’s because Roxy’s crushing loneliness reminds Damara of her younger self, or if it’s because she finds herself able to relax more easily in the presence of someone who has never met her, never known her, never judged her.

Soft guilt rises in her stomach at Eridan’s disappointment, especially since... well, he’s different to Roxy. He doesn’t need a gentle, guiding hand. He needs banter and wit, someone to spar with both verbally and physically. Roxy might need this later, but for now, she needs comfort. She’s thought it before, and will think it again: Eridan is different to the other trolls. Arguably, he’s her favourite troll, and just before he turns away, before this misunderstanding wedges a permanent divide between them, she tells him that.

“ _Humans are more fragile. But you are strong. You do not need coddling. And while you are a troll, Eridan, you are also not a nooksniffer like the others_.”

It isn’t an easy thing to admit, old wounds and past hurts still haunting her heart and threatening more disappointment, but the joyful wonder that rises on his face makes it worth it. It’s a close confession to the extent of her... pale fondness for him, but she clamps down on that.

She may like him, but that doesn’t mean she’ll let herself be burned again.

Roxy is a delightful addition to their little group, despite the grief that still lines her face. She still weeps at night, heavy, wracking sobs that immediately call Damara over to her to offer some comfort. Healing is slow-going and difficult but... they are steadily getting there. Some days she can smile more freely, will tell a human joke that neither Damara or Eridan understand, but still laugh at anyway. Some days she’ll quietly offer little pieces of information about her and her past, about how she was raised alone and lived alone until she met her friends. Her breath hitches at that point, and she shuts down, silent for the rest of the day.

But sometimes she’ll talk about them. Her dear, precious friends, and Damara feels both pity and envy at her stories, despite the shame that it brings. Roxy’s friends sound like wonderful, flawed, yet still excellent friends, and a part of Damara selfishly wishes her own friends had been like that. But then she looks at Roxy and Eridan, enthusiastically discussing wizards and magic, and she can’t help but smile fondly.

She has friends, now. Good ones. Maybe something even more pale with one of them, but time will tell where that goes. And she has all the time in the world. They all do.

They have some time to hope.

* * *

It ends with a beginning.

Three friends coming together, to learn how to heal from the past.

It'll be difficult, but then again, the best things are.

**Author's Note:**

> TRANSLATIONS  
> 1\. Is the little prince awake? Or does his highblood highness need more sleep?  
> 2\. Don’t get uppity with me, Ampora.  
> 3\. I only wanted to see what a shitty violetblood looks like at their lowest moment. It might not have been that fucking Cronus, but you’ll do.  
> 4\. Fucking scum.


End file.
